Bareknuckle Barbarian (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  “Just like back home,” Howard mused. “All the important things.” He considered the two pubs and decided on The North Star as the most inviting. “Close enough to the Lone Star Saloon for me.”

  After the bright sunlight of the Irish morning, the smoky interior of the pub was as dark as a cave. The Texan stood in the doorway, blinking till his eyes adjusted to the low light, and drank in the smell of the place – tobacco, beer, and old wood. It might have been a pub in some medieval walled city for all the dark wood and wattle walls. The Texan allowed himself that momentary fantasy before he stepped inside.

  This is why I came over here, he thought. To sorta go back in time. His writer’s mind spun all sorts of scenarios from that instant, a dozen stories from the medieval cities of the Holyland, castles on the Rheine, and the far off fantasy lands of Hyborea, but he never expected what came next.

  Something suddenly flashed across his face to thud into the wall next to him.

  “Hey, fella,” a shrill voice called. “You almost spoiled me’ shot.”

  Howard could see now and realized a dart had just missed him to hit a target to his right.

  “Sorry,” the Texan said with a shrug. “Didn’t see ya playin’.”

  “A Yank,” the voice called out.

  Howard sighed. He’d learned in his brief time in the United Kingdom not to take the name as a personal insult. Every American was a Yank to the British.

  “I’m actually from Texas,” he pointed out to the still unseen speaker. “But I am American, sure enough.”

  There were several good-natured laughs from the shadows. “Well, come on in and have a pint on us, you errant son of the old empire!”

  Howard returned the laugh. “Well, heck, boys,” he said, “That’s a downright Texas-style hello.”

  He stepped further into the pub and, as his eyes adjusted, was able to make out three men seated at the bar and another – the speaker and dart thrower – standing beside them.

  The speaker stepped forward and extended a hand. He was a short, small boned man, with orange-red hair, pale skin and sharp features. He came barely to the Texan’s shoulder.

  Howard set his duffle and typewriter down and offered a meaty hand to shake the local’s. The fingers of the redhead were long and delicate, but the grip was firm.

  “Conri Mac Tir,” the Irishman said.

  “Bob Howard,” the Texan replied. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “And you, fella,” Mac Tir said. “I’ve not met me no Yanks before. Me little brother, Fithal, has had some truck with them, but then he travels a lot. I’m a local sort of fella.”

  “Well,” Howard said, “I’ve been a sort of local fella myself up till recent. This is my first time on the old sod.”

  The mismatched pair stepped up to the bar where two pints of warm local ale were waiting for them.

  “Slainte,” Mac Tir said.

  “Mud in yer eye,” Howard replied and the two clinked glasses and drank. They both drained their glasses in two gulps.

  “Still can’t get used to your warm beer,” the Texan said. “But it sure beats water.” He set a coin on the bar. “Next round is on me. For the house.”

  The three old duffers at the bar all cheered, and the barkeep drew them all pints, including one for himself.

  For the next half an hour, the loquacious writer met the regulars and entertained them with tales of his home.

  “So you’re a seanchai, eh?” Conri asked.

  The Texan smiled at the title. “I do write tall tales for sure,” Howard said. “It’s just a bunch of tom-foolish scribblings, but I’m makin’ my living by it.”

  “I thought all you Texans had long horns?” a toothless patron joked.

  “Oh, we do,” Howard agreed amiably. “But we clip them off so they don’t ruin our hats.” That got the pub chuckling.

  “So what are you going to do in our little town?” Mac Tir asked. “Here for the fair?”

  “I don’t know what I’ll do yet,” the Texan said. “I just arrived.”

  “And yer plans?”

  “Just to soak up the local color,” Howard said with a shrug. “I didn’t know there was a fair. Sounds like fun.” He chuckled and added, “Maybe, I’ll see me some of them little people the poets write about.”

  The redheaded local smiled over the rim of his mug and said, “Well, then, we’ll have to see what we can do to find some wee folk for ya, eh?”

  The Texan regarded his host with a curious expression, but before he could speak again, a muffled cheer from the back of the dark pub room drew his attention.

  “What’s that?” Howard asked. He looked around and a thought occurred to him for the first time. “And how come in such a busy area this place is so empty mid-day?”

  The redheaded Irishman laughed. “I can answer both questions, fella.” He stood and waved Howard to follow. “Out back.”

  The Texan picked up his Underwood and followed the little man out the backdoor of the pub into the bright sunlight of the Kerry afternoon.

  The portal led to a courtyard behind the alehouse where a crowd of some twenty men stood around a cleared space in which two combatants were engaged in Coraíocht, the Irish wrestling art of the scuffle.

  One man was broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, and dark haired. His muscles, clearly visible since both men were stripped to the waist, bulged with effort. His rough features were squeezed into a teeth-clenched grimace, his dark eyes ebon beads as he stared into the eyes of his wrestling opponent.

  That opponent was a complete contrast. He was tall and thin, red haired and pale skinned. He looked almost skinny compared to the dark and hairy opponent, yet the play of corded muscle beneath his translucent skin was like steel cables.

  The two men, toe-to-toe, were like titans locked in battle. The crowd around was intensely focused on the two gladiators, gasping or sighing at each minute shift in weight between the combatants.

  “We used to have bouts like this back at the icehouse in Cross Plains,” the Texan whispered to his host. “Considerable money used to change hands now and again.”

  The red haired Irishman nodded. ”Boys are just getting in shape for the annual fair tomorrow. Last chance to size up the local boys to set the odds for a bet.”

  “Any favorites?” the Texan asked. He studied the two men in the makeshift ring, noting the shorter man was straining out of all proportion to the willowy physique of his adversary, yet seemed to be making no progress in defeating him. The two were in such locked status they might as well have been posing for a still life.

  “I suppose it’s Finnbar there,” Mac Tir said. “He’s as tough a fella as the surrounding farms can offer.”

  “The hombre he’s locked with seems to be doing okay,” Howard ventured. “Especially since he looks kinda scrawny.”

  Just as the American spoke, the redheaded gladiator went flying past the first row of spectators to tumble directly at the Texan’s feet. The youthful face of the defeated warrior was sheepish as he looked up at Mac Tir and said, “Hi, Da!”

  The redheaded Conri Mac Tir sighed deeply as he murmured, “Me very own shame. Me son, Cuan.”

  Howard extended his hand to help the fallen wrestler to his feet. The lad was as tall as the Texan, but considerably thinner. He towered over his father.

  “Son,” the elder Mac Tir said, “this is me Yank friend, Bob Howard.”

  “Actually, from Texas,” Howard corrected. “Pleased to meet you.” The young man’s grip was deceptively strong. “You looked good out there, Cuan.”

  The fallen gladiator gave a shy grin. “I did me best.”

  “That wasn’t none too good.” A gruff voice caused the three men to turn around. “You lost me two quid!”

  The speaker was a brutish looking fellow with his scalp shaved, but with a black shadow of a full head of hair on his bullet shaped cranium. He had a thick black mustache and a cruel mouth. His nose showed a history of many breaks.

  “I didn’t
do it intentionally, Bran,” Cuan insisted.

  “Of course not. You can’t help it, being a half-breed.” The rough man sneered. He stepped up to physically intimidate the thin redhead. “But it does seem to me you were fine with throwing Micah yesterday.”

  “Well, that was Micah, this is Finnbar. I guess he’s just the better man today,” the defeated wrestler said in an obvious attempt to defuse the situation. “I’ll be better tomorrow at the fair.”

  “You may have thrown today’s match to spite me, but it won’t matter when I take you tomorrow,” the brutish Bran said. He stared past the tall boy to the elder Mac Tir. It was clear to the Texan there was some long simmering argument that had little or nothing to do with any wrestling match.

  “Leave the boy be,” the elder Mac Tir said, with a slight edge to his voice and obviously trying to control himself. “Any burden he might be to me, he is his father’s son and he is not a cheat. Be gone with you!”

  The two Mac Tirs turned to head back into the pub, nodding to the visiting Texan to join them.

  The action infuriated the mustachioed Bran. He darted forward to push the father aside and launched a punch that blindsided young Cuan. The boy dropped to the ground, semi-conscious.

  The Texan reacted then without thought. Howard grabbed the attacker by the back of his shirt and flung Bran out into the center of the courtyard as if he was a sack of flour.

  “Where I come from,” Howard said as he rolled up his shirtsleeves in menace. “That kind of ambush is coward’s work. And cowards need a good old-fashioned whuppin’.”

  ROUND 2

  LIKE OLD TIMES

  The group in the courtyard were stunned by the sudden eruption of serious violence, and looked to the elder Mac Tir for guidance how to act.

  Mac Tir, the senior, was torn between leaping at the brutish Bran and comforting his son. He chose attending to the fallen Cuan.

  “Easy, Yank,” he called to Howard. “I’ll attend to Bran when I’ve seen to me boy.”

  The Texan looked back over his shoulder. “You just see to him, Conri. This’ll be my pleasure. I hate bullies.”

  Bran was back on his feet and his coarse features split into a vicious grin. “You come on, Yank,” he growled. “When I finish giving you a drubbing I’ll see to that loudmouthed ginger ponce!”

  “Ponce!” Conri shot to his feet. “You box his ears, Bob, and then I’ll kick his arse!” The little redhead smiled and the Texan noticed his canine teeth were pointed. It gave the smile a wicked quality.

  The bullet-headed and mustachioed Bran assumed a traditional Dornálaíocht stance and locked eyes with Howard. The fighting posture reminded Howard of caricatures of a boxing Irishman, with the lead hand at a greater distance from the body than done in modern boxing. The Texan noticed the lead arm’s shoulder was tight against Bran’s jaw, while the other arm was tucked tightly to the body, its fist ready to guard the jaw.

  It was clear Bran was practiced at the bare-knuckle style. Howard knew without large boxing gloves it made no sense to tuck and cover up from an assault like modern ring work. Instead, the lead hand was used to block the incoming attack. A fighter then side-stepped or back-stepped to create an angle.

  The Texas icehouse brawler was having none of it. Howard was not there to put on an exhibition – he was there to punish a bully.

  “Ready for a good beating, eh, Yank?” Bran called, with a sneer on his rough face.

  The Texan came in hard and fast, letting Bran jab at him and taking the hit by hunching his shoulder. He launched a dynamite right hook that the Irishman just managed to deflect with his left hand.

  “You call me a Yankee one more time and I’ll make you eat your teeth, hombre.”

  Bran took it as a challenge and came at the Texan. He shot out his lead hand, attempting to obtain a single collar clinch. But Howard knew that aspect of Dornálaíocht, which could be employed for dirty boxing, allowing a fighter to go right into a wrestling hold.

  Instead of pulling away, the Texan moved in on the Irishman and seized him at the belt and collar before Bran could counter. In a testament to Howard’s Gaelic anger and his Texas upbringing, the two men locked together like Titans of old, each trying to heave the other up off his feet and fling him to the ground.

  It was then that the crowd of watchers surged in and pulled the two men apart.

  “Save it for the fair, Bran,” one of the peacemakers said. “You can teach the freak and his Da then.”

  Bran hissed a threat over the heads of the men who held him, “You keep lookin’ over your shoulder, Yank. ‘Cause after I win at the fair tomorrow, I’ll be lookin’ for you.”

  “I’m always easy to find, hombre. I’ll be standin’ tall, waitin’ to put you down for good,” Howard said. Everyone in the courtyard, including the downed gambler, saw the fury in the Texan’s eyes and believed him.

  Conri Mac Tir stepped up to the towering Texan and placed a gentle hand on Howard’s arm. “Come on with us, Bob. Me son here owes you a drink, and I think you’ve worked up enough of an appetite for one of me stews.”

  “I think I’ll take you up on that,” Howard said. He lowered his fists, but kept his eyes cast back toward Bran as he stooped to pick up his typewriter case. “I could use a good home-cooked meal.”

  “Well then, best not to come to our home,” the younger Mac Tir said. “Da’s stew is…”

  The elder redhead cuffed his son on the shoulder to silence him. “No slander, spawn o’ me loins. You eat it.”

  “And look how skinny I am,” Cuan said with a grin.

  The three men went into the pub where the Texan retrieved his bag. Howard said his goodbyes to the duffers at the bar and the trio left.

  They walked along the busy afternoon streets where every second person seemed to know either father or son, or both, of the Mac Tirs.

  “If you don’t mind me askin,” Howard said as the trio headed out of town while twilight fell over the countryside. “What was that little scuffle back there all about?”

  Conri made a tsking sound. “An old grudge. Nothing really.”

  “He’s always been a git,” Cuan said. He massaged his sore neck. “He’s always hated me just like his Da always hated you, Da.”

  “Even a sidewinder like him needs some reason for that kind of hate,” Howard said.

  The elder Mac Tir just kept looking ahead, but his son said, “His Da never forgave mine for marrying mother over him.”

  “Ah,” the Texan said. “A bitter pill to swallow for his sort, I suppose.”

  Conri gave a snorting laugh. “A pill the size of an elephant for his father. He never forgave my Mary for marrying someone from outside the village, and worse still being happy for it all the way to the end!”

  The little man got a dreamy look in his eye and the Texan was sure he was lost in some bittersweet memories.

  The two redheads lived in a little cottage on the outskirts of DunKillie. It was set a little way along a path leading toward an old ruined castle on a high hill, looking down over the whole of the seaport.

  Howard stopped for a moment, pushed his Stetson back on his head, and stared up at the jumbled stones of the medieval structure. He shook his head, got a dreamy look of his own and mumbled, softly, “What inside me calls from ages gone? What Clarion trumpet shrills? What battle cry of Caesar blasts, and shivers me with chills?

  “Why am I drawn to blades and oaths, and pretty damsels fair? Could it be that once upon a dream it was that I, in truth, dwelt there?”

  “A seanchai for certain, Mister Howard,” the younger Mac Tir said with a little awe in his voice.

  “Bob, please,” he said. “I didn’t mean to get all poetic. It’s just something that comes over me sometimes.”

  “Nothing to apologize for, boyo,” Conri said. “The opposite, in fact.”

  The Texan gave a wry smile.

  “Not where I come from,” he said. “I was lucky enough to discover early in life what I wanted to do. H
owever, I’ve still done a great deal of wandering in bewildered circles. I’m predominantly Gaelic, in spite of my English name, and so I know the seanchai was an honored tradition in our people. My mama treasured it – it’s why I took her legacy to make this journey of discovery – but round about where I grew up, I was as alien as if I’d fallen out of Tir Na Nog to the plains of Texas.”

  The little red haired man gave an odd smile then and said, “I have a little idea what that is like. But you say you’ve made a living at it, so that must be some vindication.”

  “Some,” Howard said. “But I ain’t never even met no other writers so far, and it makes me feel like some sort of freak.”

  “I understand what that feels like,” Cuan said in a dark tone.

  “Easy, boy,” Conri said to his son. “It’ll all be made right tomorrow.”

  “Only if I win, Da,” the boy said, with little conviction.

  “You’ll not get any chance of that, freak,” a harsh voice yelled from the gathering darkness at the edge of the road. Almost immediately, five masked figures detached themselves from the shadows and came in hard and fast at the three friends. All the men brandished shillelagh fighting sticks!

  ROUND 3

  REVELATIONS

  The attackers said nothing else as they descended on the travelers swinging their shillelagh.

  Howard swung his duffle bag into the gut of the first attacker to reach him, following up with a straight right punch to the face of the man.

  “That’ll give you a shiner, ya bushwhacking’ varmint!” Howard shouted as he swung his Underwood case into the side of the second attacker’s head and felled him as well.

  When the Texan turned to face the other masked men, he was startled to see the elder Mac Tir responding to two other attackers like a miniature whirlwind.

  The red haired Conri was ducking and dodging blows of the shillelagh with amazing speed, replying with vicious kicks to the shins of the masked attackers.